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[rykardthebarbarian]

@hiddenvaldis

"A storm taken shape, a natural disaster in the form of a woman. "

[rykardthebarbarian]

JASON MOMOA Conan the Barbarian (2011)

[rykardthebarbarian]

[rykardthebarbarian]

Everything that means anything can be gone in an instant.

@thequeendomhqinspo

[rykardthebarbarian]

The Barbarian had been a fool to think that his knowledge of mushrooms would aid him in identifying toxic and medicinal plants. This was much more difficult, it felt damn near impossible to tell one root from another without the characteristic flowers and stems attached. Besides, he was hardly an expert in the field of mycology. Even an uneducated brute such as himself could easily identify the iconic red and white spotted caps of the Amanita muscaria mushrooms used to create the berserker toxin.

Rykard felt like an outsider here amongst the Silver Elvhen and Faiman. And the frustration of his continuous failures was beginning to take it's toll. Every time he heard the melodic laughter coming from the group of elves seated to his right he thought they were laughing at him. The intrusive thought of tossing a handful of unknown flora into the bubbling cauldron before him to create a cloud of toxic vapor crossed his mind. Class is cancelled, motherfuckers.

He glanced over at Juneau when she spoke, then back to the plant he was currently holding. He was about to drop it in with the ground up remnants of voxnan and ektorp until Juneau spoke up. The toxic irespring would have contaminated the otherwise beneficial compounds. "Fuck," He breathed out a sigh of frustration, "I thought this was kallax root. How do I tell them apart?" He surveyed the two piles of herbs sitting on the ground in front of him, now second guessing how accurately he sorted the plants. Rykard picked up a sprig of foliage from the toxic pile, it had parallel-veined leaves with rough edges and dark purple berries. "Okay, plant expert, this is lycksele, right? Poisonous?"

Who: @rykardthebarbarian Where: Silverlands studying study hall? When: Neptunalia plotdrop Notes: Makin' up plants and namin' em after Ikea furniture.... Also I am so sorry it took me so long to get this written.

It felt counterintuitive that herbalism was so much easier in the wilds. The pages of texts and faded illustrations of the tomes made things much more complicated than they needed to be. Or maybe that was just the case for Juneau, who struggled immensely to focus on the words on the page, the letters morphing and twisting into shapes and patterns she could neither recognize nor make sense of. Juneau was making an effort to ignore her growing headache as she tried to decipher any fraction of the text and cross-reference it with her scribbled illustrations in her old, faithful field journal. Some of the plants were the same, but many natives to Lysara evaded her. 

Juneau sat back to take a forced break. Her arms were crossed and a scowl was prominent on her features, but really she was frustrated nearly to the point of tears. It shouldn’t be this hard, and she internally cursed herself for her stupidity while she considered giving up. She may have, had she not noticed another struggling scholar–though calling herself a scholar would be very, very generous. She observed as the hulking man sorted a bundle of plants into two piles. She could tell from looking at the two piles he divided them into that he was tasked with sorting the stems and blooms into two categories: helpful and harmful. She also noted that his most recent placement was incorrect. 

“You know that one is poison, right?” she pointed out quietly, but not judgementally. “Irespring looks like kallax root, but they’re different. Irespring is no good… Do you know how to tell the difference?” It felt nice that she wasn’t at a complete loss when it came to recognizing the value and properties of the herbs, even if she couldn’t identify the ones that were new to her yet. 

[rykardthebarbarian]

Jason Momoa as Conan in Conan The Barbarian (2011)

[rykardthebarbarian]

For: @hiddenbrynn Where: Eterna back alleys near Tiber Bay When: Post Neptunalia

When he noticed the scarab charm that hung around the mercenary's throat, Rykard knew that man had to die. A Sandstorm Raider, far from his homeland, still hanging around Lysara after the conclusion of the festival. The hardest part was not immediately smashing the man's skull into the wooden counter of the dingy dive bar they were in, the Barbarian's hands shook with anticipation. He glared daggers at the man from his dimly lit table at the back of the bar, silently hoping that he would choke on the cheap ale he was guzzling. After what seemed like an eternity, the Sandstorm Raider paid his tab and exited the establishment. Rykard waited a bit before following him out to not make what he was about to do so obvious. Besides, he now had his scent. The Beast would hunt his quarry to the ends of the Earth if need be.

They collided in an alleyway, no words exchanged other than the startled yelp the Raider let out when Rykard slammed him into the wall. Rykard then began punching him in the face, rapid blows that hit with enough force to bounce his head back against the wall and back to Rykard's fist like a fucking punching bag. He did not stop hitting him until long after the man's heart stopped beating.

The hulking form of the berserker stood over the mangled corpse of the fallen mercenary, fresh blood dripping down Rykard's fingertips. The Raider's face was unrecognizable—a caved in, hemic pulp. He ripped the charm off of the body, able to study it more carefully now that it's owner was dead. The scarab was a tarnished green color, signifying the man's low rank within the faction. A deep dissatisfied growl rumbled in his chest as his fingers squeezed around the soft metal, crumbling the beetle into a ball in his fist. It did not matter that the man he just murdered was just some grunt, he would kill every Sandstorm Raider one by one if he had to. Yet he knew that even if he were to stack these bodies high enough to climb to the heavens themselves, it would never be enough. His friends weren't coming back.

The distinct scent of magic filled his nose and he looked up from his latest trophy, but did not see anyone there. Yet he felt the presence of another, hairs on the back of his neck rising as he lingered within someone's gaze. The werewolf had been acclimatizing to the grimy underbelly of Eterna for the past few weeks, it was highly likely that whoever was there with him would not turn their nose up to a bribe. It was worth a shot. "Help me make this guy disappear and you can have whatever's in his pockets," He callously kicked the corpse, hard enough to rustle together the sack of coins hiding in his pocket.

[rykardthebarbarian]

JASON MOMOA Saturday Night Live ‧ 2023

[rykardthebarbarian]

With no obligations to participate in any of the events, Rykard occupied his time with pounding bottles of wine and people watching, fully taking everything in. He felt foolish for even considering not attending Neptunalia, this festival was a well needed distraction from the Hell he had been through over the past few months. He spotted a familiar shape in the crowd of spectators, pushing his way through the group to claim a space beside Luna. He raised his hand to wave at her before leaning against the railing, focus shifting to the colorful vessels floating on the water. His gaze landed on the crew of gnarly looking pirates on a raggedy sailboat positioned at the starting line, then to the boat painted to look like a banana that was parked directly next to the pirates. "I don't know shit about boats," Rykard admitted, watching as all the boats' sails raised in unison to catch the wind and propel themselves away from the starting line. "But I've got five coins on that one," He gestured to drunk pirates in the raggedy boat, "To win." The vessels surged towards the first buoy they had to circle, the small patch of water quickly becoming congested by all the boats. The banana boat and a blue boat painted to look like a shark collided, sending most of the banana crew overboard. The other competitors did not stop to help sailors trying to climb back into their boat, far too focused on winning.

Who: Open Where: Neptunalia, by the docks, during sailing competition

Boats floated where they were moored to the docks, bright colourful banners with nautical designs waved in the sea breeze and Luna's heart beat rapidly in her throat, she had hoped to be by the force of nature would bring her peace but it wasn't her element of the trees. The sail boating community that had committed to the festivities did bring a smile to her face, the sailors were steadying themselves for the races and the starting flag was dropped. "Whoo! Go team! Go sports! Five coins on.." trailing around, the Werewolf knew nothing about boats. "That one." She chose the one that looked like a clown car on the waves.

[rykardthebarbarian]

Leaving home was difficult, even if the place that you once called home hated you. The Barbarian aimed to keep himself busy, his thoughts raced when his body was idle. Uncertainty of what the future held in store for him, as well as his fellow refugees, slowly chipped away at his resolve. Rykard was currently constructing another temporary structure, sinking thick straight branches into the earth to form a frame that he lashed together with vines. A worn sheet of canvas was thrown over the structure and he began hammering in stakes to keep it from blowing away. He heard someone speak to him and could feel the eyes of other refugees and Haven residents alike burning into his back as they awaited how he would respond to their queen. "We're running low on rope to secure the tents with," He reported, turning around to face her. "Thank you," he began, "For offering us Iskarans shelter." Seeing Aurea out here amongst the refugees gave him hope, albeit it was a bit jarring to witness this region's ruler directly involving herself with helping the sick and wounded. He certainly was not in Iskaldrik anymore.

"I heard rumors that this place is a safe haven for wolves," Even when there was no need to hide his true nature anymore, his voice still dropped a few octaves at the word wolves, but he spared a paranoid glance over his shoulder. It felt like a massive boulder was lifted off his chest just by speaking those words aloud, so he kept going. "This is all very new to me. Back in Iskaldrik, seeing the wolf dream is considered a curse, not a blessing."

Location: Haven, at the Fairgrounds amongst all the shelters and medical tents Person: Open to Refugees/Those helpin' out "Can I get you anything? Are you settled?" There's a ridiculous amount of hustle and bustle going on but it seems to be a well oiled machine at least in terms of her wolves. She can feel it, the unity amongst all of them to just help. It's not something easy, the Iskaran's don't all take too kindly to her people but that doesn't stop her from speaking to those she can as she moves from tent to tent. There's much diplomacy to be done and she'll get to it, people have been coming to her all day, but she's left a lot delegated until she help take inventory of everyone and everything. She's a queen dammit, if she would rather visit medical tents and make sure the refugees had food and shelter, she damn well would.

[rykardthebarbarian]

Rykard attends Neptunalia.

@thequeendomhqinspo

[rykardthebarbarian]

When: Post Welcome to Our Queendom Plot Drop Where: Wildlands - Feronia Description: Rykard reflects on what has happened over of the past few months while fleeing Iskaldrik, with focus on the events of The King's Road. TW: Gore

The mountain of a man was crouched next to a flowing stream deep within the forest of Haven, cleaning the trout he had caught. Resonating in his solitude, his mind continued to pour over the events of the past. The escape from his wartorn homeland all felt like a really fucked up dream, but the ache in his bones and the welted scars marring his flesh was a harsh reminder of the hell he had lived through. 

To die with a blade in your hand was considered a great honor in the land of Iskaldrik. They say that when a warrior’s battle in this realm is over, a new one begins elsewhere. Valhalla, they called it. An afterlife filled with feasting, fighting and fucking, what more could a warrior need? As if gorging oneself on violence was not enough for one lifetime. The boundary between bravery and stupidity was nebulous at best and Rykard was never the type to back down from a challenge. So he left at dawn with the King's entourage. 

The journey along the king’s road was wrought with terror. The band of refugees scouting ahead of the King made it very clear that peace was never an option, provoking the first pair of foes they stumbled across. The scouts ventured deeper into the frozen wasteland. 

The party had fought a deserter of the Legion, a fierce slayer of Blademasters and an adept in blood magic. The party had tangled with Lilith herself, and lived to tell the tale. They even survived the roof of the cavern falling in on them. 

Every night when Rykard drifted off to sleep, the same dream repeated. This had been going on for well over a month now. Years of abusing the potion of the berserker began to not only eroded his flesh, but his mind as well, the Barbarian suspected. The brew left his senses numb for days after a fit of rage, body broken and sore, yet in the wolf dream he remained as sharp as a blade. The same images played again for him in his mind’s eye: the dense coniferous forest of the Wildlands, hundreds of wolves running together under the full moon, each of their bodies a single thread of a great tapestry. At some point during the vision, his legs give out from under him as a weight crushes him to the earth as the pack of wolves fade into the distance. Black, congealed blood seeps into his fur and he can make out the mangled remains of his fallen comrades. The fingers connected to severed hands from the mass of viscera crushing him move to wrap around his throat and the dream ends. 

The scouts pressed onwards, deeper into the unknown. 

The dragon roared, Blight hanging on its breath that spewed about the subterranean cavern. The decaying beast oozed tainted ichor from crevices between its scales, crimson eyes glassy but still they shone with malice. The acrid twinge of arcana burned through his nose as the casters in the troupe began to weave, sending forth torrents of destructive raw energy. 

But just as he was about to charge at the blighted creature, the hoards of darkspawn spilled in from the entrance to the cavity. Fuck. A dragon before him and the Dark One's fiends at his back, a river of blood would stain the floor of their escape path. He could not fight a dragon with blades in his back, so he turned and rushed towards the nearest group of Darkspawn. Blades at the ready, he let his rage burn away any other emotion that might have hindered him at this moment. His ax cleaved a spawn’s skull in two, spraying himself and the fallen foe's brethren with hot gray matter. He swung his greatsword with his left hand, cutting down a lesser creature at the waist. The Barbarian continued to viciously strike down the hoard, cutting through the mass of bleeding bodies, the slash of their jagged blades failing to hinder the raging warrior. 

The dragon was felled before he had cut his way through the hoard. The dying cry of the dragon caught his attention and he glanced over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of a shieldmaiden with an enchanted eye plunging her blade directly into its chest. The darkspawn fell next, easy work for a ragtag collective of Iskaran refugees that would rather die fighting than give up now. 

Once again the troupe prevailed. 

The veil that had been draped over the fallen kingdom briefly lifted. Rykard stood witness to the dawn of a new beginning.  Iskaldrik was his home, but the lands had brought him nothing but suffering throughout his lifetime. As he stepped across the border, just an arbitrary line in the dirt that separated one regent’s claim from another, he felt something within him change.  A heavy burden that he had been carrying for so long that he had grown accustomed to the hindrance, its absence an alien feeling that resonated along the very chords that wove together his soul. Maybe he no longer had to hide his true nature. 

This place wasn't home yet, but he would make it so.

[rykardthebarbarian]

Task 1. Childhood.

His early years were spent roving the Midlands of Iskaldrik, robbing the caravans passing through the area on their way to trade ports with the cut-throat gang of bandits that raised him. They did not care that Rykard was just a child, there was no room for dead weight in this outfit. Either grow up strong or don't grow up at all. Although the gang never shared a kind word with the kid, always treated him as a pest and constantly put his life in danger, they were the closest thing the boy had to a family. In spite of how terrible it was, this was the only life Rykard had known. They merely tolerated him, up until they no longer could do so. The full moon that followed his first kill revealed the beast that had been slumbering dormant within him. Prejudice against magic ran deep in these lands, they made it very apparent with their blades and arrows that Rykard was no longer welcome. Like a manifestation out of his dreams, the wolves were there to lift him up at the lowest point of his life so far. There's a lesson that he learned when he was young that has stuck with him well into adulthood. The wolves that took him in were far more kind than the men that raised him.

[rykardthebarbarian]

For: @lunadarkwoodx Where: Nornwatch Tower - Courtyard  When: Flashback to the first few days after the troupe arrived at Nornwatch.  Notes: Training help connect

For many of the refugees that had escaped to Nornwatch Keep, war and the destruction that came as a result of it were just stories. Stories of atrocities happening on distant lands, far from the lives they carved out for themselves. Nothing like that would ever happen in Iskaldrik…until the Magi attacked. Amongst the group were merchants, tailors, farmers, cobblers, and carpenters. But a smithing hammer held similar properties to a war hammer, and a battle ax was just a more aggressive rendition of a woodcutter’s ax. For the first time in many of the survivor’s lives, they found themselves reaching for weapons that they had never fathomed even wielding before. The effort was inspirational to some, yet futile to others. Rykard saved his own broad judgements and instead focused his attention on those that seemed to stand a fighting chance. 

“Here,” a large hand wrapped around the handle of a massive battle axe, gripping it near the top near the blade as he offered it to Luna. The weapon was heavy, but the giant of a man made it seem light as a feather in his hand.  He passed it off to Luna with the confidence that she could lift it high enough to use it.  In an ideal circumstance, he would have something with less weight for her to practice with. But Rykard himself was forced to learn on weapons much too heavy for him when he was just a boy, and those early experiences honed him into the fierce warrior he was today.  “Hold it with both hands and give it a swing,” the Barbarian encouraged.

[rykardthebarbarian]

[rykardthebarbarian]

Jason Momoa for Men’s Health (2023)

[rykardthebarbarian]

Do your powers cause you any discomfort?

Yes, to varying levels. The days leading up to the full moon makes Rykard more irritated and restless, the wolf is ready to claw its way out of his own skin. While he seems undeterred by pain while in his berserker state, he definitely feels every hit he takes. He fights without inhibition, pushing his body to it's physical limits. He can often be found soaking in water after a long fight, numb and dead to the world as he wanders the corridors of the wolf dream as his body repairs itself. The berserker potion continues to take from him, just how much does he have left to give?